As April turned into May, the realization hit the city with a jolt. In a mere six days, L’Exposition Universelle Internationale de 1889 would finally be under way. The finishing touches were being put upon the enormous glass and castiron exhibition halls that filled the Champ de Mars and the Esplanade des Invalides. Hotels were filling up as visitors from all over the world descended on the city like Muslims on a pilgrimage to Mecca. The restaurants and cafés, dance halls, parks, and squares—everything was crowded with tourists. The streets were alive with anticipation and a heady sense of self-importance.
Paris had reclaimed its position as center of the world.
But while the rest of the city was counting down the hours to the May 6th opening, Garrett was totally involved in his reception three days earlier on the site of the partially completed Caldwell Pavilion. Mason had no more illusions that he was doing this for her benefit, but he’d still thrown himself into the project with the zeal of a master impresario. It was important, he told her, “to steal some of the thunder” from the much larger displays of fine art that were about to open all around them, and give art patrons a taste of the excitement to come and afford them an opportunity to donate to the cause.
An outdoor event in the spring was always a risk in Paris, but the weather cooperated. The night of the reception proved to be a splendid May evening, warm with clear skies and no hint of rain. Colorful Japanese lanterns had been strung all about the area. A chamber orchestra provided a gracious atmosphere with the sweet strains of Mozart and Haydn. A canopy sectioned off tables laden with gourmet treats and champagne. A regiment of waiters in smart red uniforms were poised to serve the needs of a guest list that Richard made sure included the crème de la crème of the city’s cultural, financial, and political elite, as well as the critics, dealers, and glamorous patrons of the international art world. The Prince of Wales and President Carnot were both expected to make appearances. But the focal point of the evening was a selection of Caldwell paintings displayed around the perimeter of the cordoned-off area, where the company could wander about and appreciate them at their leisure.
Richard was in an especially gregarious mood. As the guests began to appear, he turned on the full force of his charm, amiably greeting the arrivals, making the introductions, presenting the artist’s sister. As the champagne flowed freely and the music drifted on the evening breeze, he joined the more important guests at the paintings, discussing them so subtly and eloquently that they never realized he was making a sales pitch. He made certain the guests understood the paintings’ aesthetic value, their place in art history, and why he felt they rated their own pavilion.
It was a glittering assembly. Actresses and socialites mixed with captains of industry and Italian nobility, maharajas with South American cattle kings and owners of African diamond mines, critics, playwrights, and poets with Salon painters, sculptors, explorers, army generals, and inventors whose creations would soon be featured at the fair. The conversation was lively, intelligent, and spiked with the excitement generated by the upcoming Exposition. All in the shadow of the Tower—this astonishing eighth wonder of the world—with a panoply of electric lights that made it gleam like a beacon in the darkening night.
As Mason stood in the middle of this enchanted setting, watching Richard go through all these elaborate motions, his devotion to Mason Caldwell’s cause seemed so touching and authentic that she had to remind herself it was all part of his carefully laid trap.
You bastard! Do you think I don’t see through you? How you’re doing all this for yourself? Because the more famous you make me, the more spectacular your success when you unmask me. Well, the evening isn’t going to be as successful for you as you might think. With a little luck, you have a surprise in store for you!
It happened just minutes later. A tall, blond man with a formal, aristocratic bearing and sharply defined features was making his entrance.
Count Dimitri Orlaf.
As he entered the party, smiling and bowing to people he knew, Mason felt a stab of malicious anticipation. Two tigers in a cage. Now all she had to do was stand back and watch the fun—and see what kind of weapon she might gain from it.
Richard was completely unaware of the new arrival. He was at the other end of the party, talking to the author Émile Zola, pointing to a detail in one of the paintings. How long would it take him to notice the unwanted intruder in his midst?
As it turned out, it took no time at all. As if by some osmosis or sixth sense, he stopped midsentence, turned, and spotted the man at once. In a flash, his veneer of cordiality vanished, replaced by a look of raw fury.
Mason watched with a delicious smile. What was he going to do?
With an angry glare, he shot toward the man like a bullet streaking toward its target. Mason moved closer, not wanting to miss a minute.
Orlaf saw him coming. He stood where he was, amusement lifting the corners of his mustache. “Well, if it isn’t my host, Richard Garrett.”
“What are you doing here?” Richard growled.
“Why, my dear fellow, I was invited.”
“I wouldn’t invite you to your own funeral.”
A number of the guests around them had caught the air of friction and turned to stare. Mason used them as a shield behind which to watch without being seen.
“But of course I was invited.” Orlaf reached into his pocket and removed the engraved invitation Mason had sent him.
Garrett glared at it. “I don’t know how you got that, and I don’t much care. But if you know what’s good for you, you will turn around and leave.”
Garrett’s raised voice aroused even more attention.
“Dear fellow, I have no intention of leaving. I’m positively itching to see these paintings I’ve been hearing so much about. I may even be interested in acquiring some of them.”
Richard’s face had turned to granite. “I’m going to give you exactly one minute to get out of my sight.”
“And if I choose to ignore your little ultimatum?”
“I’ll throw you out.”
Orlaf chuckled. “And make a fool of yourself in front of all these salon habitués? Create a public scandal? Cause a scene at a party where you’re trying to raise funds? I hardly think so.”
“You think I won’t create a scene?” Richard flared. The words hardly left his lips before he hauled back and slugged the Russian in the face.
The crowd gasped as Orlaf reeled into those closest to him. Mason was as shocked as everyone else. She’d never seen Richard like this. He was literally trembling with anger and hatred. The guests backed up, alarmed by the frightening intensity that radiated from him.
“I suppose you want satisfaction for that?” he snarled. “I’ll be happy to meet you any time, any place, with any weapon you might desire. Name it, Orlaf.”
Shaking himself off, a taunting smile returned to the Russian’s face. “Oh, I’ll get satisfaction, all right, old friend. But in my own time and in my own way. And I think I will leave your little soiree right now, because I don’t need to see the paintings tonight. I’ll have plenty of time for that when I become their broker.”
Richard charged after the man, grabbed his jacket in both hands, and gave him a single, violent shake. With his face close, he rasped out, “You listen to me, you son of a bitch. I’ll see you dead before you get anywhere near these paintings.”
Just then there was a commotion in the crowd and Hank Thompson came barreling through. He put his hand on Richard’s shoulder. “Now, hold on, boy, that’s enough. Get control of yourself. Where do you think you are?”
“If someone doesn’t get him out of here, I swear to God, I’m going to kill him.”
Finally losing his temper, Orlaf steamed, “You British prick. I’m going to make you pay for this. I know just how to get you.”
As Hank wrestled Richard from the scene, he called out to the Russian, “You’d better get out of here, fella, while you can still walk.” To the crowd, he added, “Nothing at all, folks. A couple of young bulls having a pissing match. Happens every day. Nothing at all to get excited about.”
The crowd began to disperse, gossiping among themselves about the unprecedented confrontation. Mason heard a woman close to her sigh, behind her fan, “My, but wasn’t that stimulating? I’ve never seen anything like that before. The Englishman…My heart is positively pounding!”
“I’m all aflutter,” her female companion replied.
Mason watched as Hank spoke softly to Richard, calming him down. She waited for Hank to leave, then took him a glass of champagne. “That was quite a scene.”
She could still see the anger simmering in Richard’s eyes, but he reined it in, and said, “My apologies. The incident won’t do much for our money-raising efforts, I’m afraid. But, as you may have noticed, the man is like a red flag in front of a bull to me. I can’t imagine how he got an invitation.”
“Why do you hate him so much?”
“He’s a blackguard. He disguises himself as an aristocrat and a connoisseur, but he makes his money as a broker for stolen art. When a painting is lifted anywhere in the world, the thief knows he can always find a home for it in Russia through Orlaf. Even for a legitimately purchased painting, the worst thing that can happen is for it to fall into Orlaf’s hands. He’ll sell it to the Russian aristocracy who don’t believe in museums and will just horde it away forever. Orlaf represents everything evil in the world of culture, and I detest him.”
He spoke with such feeling, such passion, such wounded integrity that an unexpected guilt tugged at Mason’s conscience. She’d provoked this confrontation to create a scene and see what it might tell her about Richard’s past. But the genuine pain it had unleashed in him gave her no pleasure. And she’d learned nothing more than she’d known before.
The incident had only weakened her defenses against him.
She turned away. She had to fight this. If she was going to best him, she couldn’t let her heart get in the way of her purpose.
She had to slam the door on the love she still felt for him.